


break me like a promise

by PleaseDontGetMeRescued



Series: i think your love would be too much [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arya is confused, F/M, Gendry just wants Arya to love him, I promise, Not in this one but eventually, Sansa just wants her sister to be happy, Sibling Love, What is proper sentence structure?, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:01:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PleaseDontGetMeRescued/pseuds/PleaseDontGetMeRescued
Summary: If she walks away now the damage will be done.-Missing scenes from 8x04.





	break me like a promise

**Author's Note:**

> Cry with me?
> 
> -
> 
> Series title from sunflower by post malone.
> 
> Story title from all too well by taylor swift.

There’s a sense of dreadful foreboding that follows her from her chambers to Sansa’s solar.She leans her forehead against the cool wood of the door.Her body is the aching kind of tired from a combination of slow healing and too much sleep.Her head aches. 

 

She doesn’t bother knocking, pushing the door open and moving to sit in the high-backed chair across from her sister.Sansa isn’t discreet about wiping tears from her cheeks.She twists her direwolf pin in her fingers.“How are you feeling?”Sansa’s voice is groggy and sallow.She stares down at her hands.

 

Arya shrugs.“Tired.Sore.”Sansa nods in understanding.“And you?”

 

Sansa shrugs.“Tired.Sad.”Arya nods back.Sansa pushes more tears away, up and into her hairline.Her eyes are red.Her face is crumpling before Arya’s very eyes.There is so much sadness on her dear sister’s face.Arya aches to soothe it away.

 

She moves to the chair directly next to Sansa and takes her hand.“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice catching before she can stop it.“About Theon.I’m so-”

 

“Please don’t,” Sansa pleads.She squeezes Arya’s hand.She clamps her eyes shut.“Don’t apologize.You saved us, Arya.”

 

“Not all of us.”The frost-bitten grip around her throat tightens. 

 

Sansa swallows.She nods.Arya is right, of course.Too many died.It was senseless and unbearable and there’s nothing they can do about it now. 

 

“He knew what he was doing. Protecting Bran.”Sansa’s pretty lips press together so thin and painful they turn white.“He died protecting our family.” 

 

“He _was_ our family,” Arya presses, leaning closer to Sansa, making sure she hears, that she _knows_ , what Arya is saying.“He was our family,” she says again. 

 

“I can only pray that he knew that.”Sansa shakes her head sadly.Her long, unbraided hair spills over her shoulder.“That we loved him.”

 

“I think he did.”Arya bumps their shoulders together with a tiny smile.

 

“I don’t know,” Sansa says with a grin.“He was a bit of an idiot.”They laugh.It’s in poor taste to speak unkindly about the dead, Arya knows. But right now she’ll take any bit of joy she can get. 

 

Sansa rests her head on Arya’s shoulder.She squeezes her hand.“Speaking of love…”She trails off, eyes cast up at her sister. 

 

Arya stiffens. “Leave it alone.It’s nothing.”

 

“Arya-”

 

“There’s no time, Sansa.I don’t have time to think about this.There’s too much to do.”

 

Sansa doesn’t say anything for a long moment.Arya thinks perhaps she’s being let off the hook.But then again, Sansa has always been one to pry.Still, the question is not the one Arya thinks she’ll ask. 

 

“Does he make you happy?

 

She could lie.And perhaps she should.She should deny, deny, deny this feeling.The fluttering in her chest and the ache in her cheeks from smiling when he’s around.She should go back to being No One.There’s too much to do, she reminds herself.She has a list.She has…

 

Suddenly she has a sneaking suspicion that she’s making excuses.Besides her list, what else has she to do?There are only two names left.After that…then what? 

 

And really, she told Jon.Sansa is the smartest person she’s ever met.There’s really no use in lying to her.“Yes,” she admits finally.“He has always made me feel…” Safe.Content.Calm.Free. 

 

Sansa picks her head up off of Arya’s shoulder at the word _always_ , looking at her with unbridled hope.“Will you tell me about it?”

 

Arya bumps their shoulders together again.“Not today.”Sansa nods in understanding.She fiddles with the ends of her hair. 

 

“I don’t know,” Aryacontinues lamely.She shrugs.“I don’t know what this feeling is.”

 

“But you want to be with him.”

 

Deny, deny, deny.But how can she?It’s true.She wants to be with Gendry.She wants to play and fight and explore together.She wants to laugh with him and always feeling the blooming warmth in her chest that she felt last night when he kissed her so tenderly.Bringer of Dawn. Hero of Westeros.That’s what they’ve been calling her.But to Gendry, she was just Arya.She is one of the most deadly assassins in the Seven Kingdoms, but he treats her gently, kisses her slow, holds her tightly.Just like he had before she was the savior.Just like he had when they were young.

 

He had always been good.A good friend.A good man.He was too good for her.Pure and sweet and caring.And she is-

 

She thinks of the Night King’s fingers around her throat. 

 

_Walder Frey’s blood on her skin.The Waif’s body at her feet.The people she’s hurt or killed or left for dead.There’s too many to count._

 

“He deserves better.”

 

Sansa scoffs.“That’s ridiculous.You’re-”

 

“The Hero of Westeros, the Bringer of Dawn, A lady, a Stark, I know.”

 

There’s a beat.Sansa blinks at her calmly.“I was going to say a good person.”

 

Arya’s throat feels incredibly tight all of a sudden.The throbbing pressure behind her eyes is building.“No, I’m not.”

 

“Why?”When Arya doesn’t respond, Sansa presses on.“Because we’re at war?We’ve all done terrible things.”

 

Arya can’t even bear to look at her.She shakes her head.“No one’s done the things I’ve done.”

 

Sansa lets go of her hand.She picks up her cup and swallows deeply.Arya assumes it’s water but on a day like today, she can’t be sure. 

 

“The world is a terrible place. We’ve all done what we need to do to survive.” Sansa moves to her dressing table and sits in front of the glass to begin plaiting her hair.“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be happy.” 

 

Arya can’t reply.She drops her elbow to the table and her head to her hand.She presses on the bruise on her forehead.Somehow the pain is grounding. 

 

“Theon died and I never told him that I forgive him.I never told him that he was my brother and that I loved him.”Sansa ties off the end of her braid and flicks it over her shoulder with sad eyes.“I willalways regret that.”She pulls on her cloak.“Just think about it, won’t you?”

 

Arya’d like to promise that she would, but she knows herself too well.And she knows better than to lie to Sansa. 

 

-

 

She didn’t think about it.

 

Well, maybe a little.

 

She and Gendry catch eyes at the memorial, but only for a moment.They both know it’s not the right time. 

 

After that she avoids him.He shouldn’t feel special though.She avoids everyone - her brothers, Sansa, the queen, and event the feast in her name.There’s people, so many people, who try to thank her.They cry and try to hug her, thank her for killing the Night King and she - yeah she can’t deal with that. 

 

She hides herself away.The sun has long since sunken below the horizon when he finally finds her. 

 

He’s right; it is freezing.Still, she can’t help but feel a surge of warmth when he throws his hands in the air.“Don’t shoot.”She grins.Despite her best effort, she had missed being near him today.It’s been a long day.Her brain and body are both tired.She’s sore all over, her head throbs behind her ears, and all of her stitches itch

 

He’s a lord now, he tells her.By order of the Dragon Queen herself.The tiniest shock of delight sparks through Arya’s chest.He’s always wanted this, she knows.Maybe not necessarily the title or the land, but the name.A real name.He’s a Baratheon now.

 

“Congratulations,” she says and means it. 

 

He kisses her.Quick and fierce and that’s that.He pulls away.She looks in his eyes. 

 

And then he opens his mouth again.

 

He tells her she’s beautiful and that he loves her and he wants to be with her, to marry her, and Arya-

 

Her throat catches.The Night King’s unbreakable grip is back, squeezing the life from her lungs. 

 

_Walder Frey’s blood on her skin.The Waif’s body at her feet.The people she’s hurt or killed or left for dead.There’s too many to count._

 

That’s who she is.He’s looking at her like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen, all he could possibly want.But she is death cometh.A killer covered in blood that can’t be wiped away no matter how hard she tries.It’s the life she trained for - the one she willingly signed up for.Death follows her wherever she goes.It takes and takes and takes and so does she. 

 

 _Valar morghulis.All men must die._ But she won’t be the reason that Gendry does.She has to let him go.

 

He wants her to be his lady wife.She doesn’t even know what that means.She can’t go to Storm’s End, she thinks.She doesn’t know how.Her entire life has been running, running, running.She wants- she wants…

 

 _There’s so much to do_ , she’d told Sansa. _There’s no time._

 

No.She must keep moving.It doesn’t matter what she wants.She made a vow, even if just to herself.She swore she would finish her list, bring justice for her family.If she abandons that vow now, even for Gendry, she knows she’ll never finish.

 

She _could_ say yes, though.Say _yes, but_ …Urge him to wait.After the war, perhaps.A year from now.Two.Five?However long it takes for her to finish what she started.If she even survives that long.

 

She knows death.She doesn’t fear it any longer.No, she fears something else now - something far worse. 

 

She knows what if feels like to lose a loved one.Her father, her mother, Rob, and little Rickon.She even lost Gendry himself for a time.The ache, the searing, soul-tearing pain of losing love stings far worse than any injury she’s ever earned in battle. 

 

He loves her.His eyes are so bright and his faces so earnest and, by the Seven, she believes him.She doesn’t want him to hurt when she meets her inevitable end.

 

So she has two options.Be with him.Be with Gendry and make him happy; keep the hope shining in his eyes blazing until she leaves for King’s Landing.Let him love her…And then potentially be ripped away from him, body and soul, at the hand of any number of their enemies. 

 

Or, she could control the damage.Think, plan ahead.If she walks away now the damage will be done.Gendry will respect her choice not to be with him.He won’t like it; it will hurt.He may even come to hate her.For leaving.For giving herself to him so wholly, only to snatch it away.But eventually, he’ll move on.Won’t he? 

 

If she tells him she loves him - and she does, doesn’t she? - and then never comes back…No.She has to do this.

 

She kisses him.And kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.She smiles. 

 

“You’ll be a wonderful lord.”Truth.

“Any lady would be lucky to have you.” Truth.

“I’m not a lady.I never have been.”It’s not a lie but it’s not the truth either.

“That’s not me.”

 

She walks away.She can’t look at him.She can’t be here or she’ll take it all back. 

 

She waits until she’s outside, the frigid air nipping at her teary eyes, to let her mask crumble away.Her face tightens, her mouth pinches.She holds back a sob, takes a deep breath, and heads back to the castle.

 

-

 

To get to the kitchen she has to pass through the feast.The party is still going, fires raging and wine spilling.When she walks through the doors a cheer goes up across the room.People lift their glasses to her.The Bringer of Dawn has arrived.

 

Someone hands her a goblet of wine.She catches Jon’s eye from across the room.He smiles at her and lifts his glass.Arya returns the gesture and proceeds to drink her cup in one long go.When she opens her eyes again, Sansa is looking at her.

 

Arya turns away from her sister’s worried eyes.She snatches a full wineskin from a passing maid and marches right back out of the feast and up to her room. 

 

She slams the door and immediately rips the ties from her hair in an attempt to relieve the booming ache in her head.It hurts to breathe.It hurts to think.She scrubs a hand down her face and winces when she brushes the tender spot on her forehead.Everything fucking hurts and it infuriates her.She pulls the cork from the wineskin and drinks deeply.She gags.The taste is too sweet and sits heavy on her tongue.That only infuriates her more. 

 

She thinks of her mother and how displeased she’d be to see Arya in this state, wine spilling down her clothes like a drunkard.But her mother is gone and never coming back.Her father and Rickon and Robb, all gone.Nymeria had left.Syrio was dead. 

 

_What do we say to the god of death?_

 

She drinks again, willing her mind to go blank.To just be quiet.

 

She thinks of the mountains of dead bodies piled in the courtyard of her home.She thinks of the thick, dark, stinking plumes of smoke from the funeral pyres that are still lingering outside the wall. 

 

She drinks, wine dribbling down her chin.

 

She thinks of Samwell Tarley pulling gravel from her belly.She thinks her head rested on Bran’s still knee.She thinks of Jon holding her hand, and Sansa’s forehead pressed against hers, telling her _it’s alright.It’s alright now._  

 

She drinks.

 

She thinks of Gendry stroking her hair.Kissing her eyelids.Her lips.Saying, _rest_.

 

She drops the wineskin and slams her fist into the stone wall of her childhood room.Only once.Her hands are her greatest weapon and she knows better than to damage them.Still, she presses her face against the cold stone and lets the pain radiate through her arm. 

 

She gasps in a desperate breath.Her chest is heaving.It hurts so badly with her broken ribs and her broken heart.

 

She needs to calm down. 

 

She pulls Needle from her belt.She takes a deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing. 

 

Syrio’s voice echoes in her mind. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

 

It’s been so long since she’s had time to simply practice her footwork.Once upon a time, before the war, before the Night King, before the Faceless Men and her father’s head dropping to the dusty streets of King’s Landing, there had only been this.Her and Syrio in the Red Keep, going through the movements.Step here, watch there.Don’t get distracted.Don’t look away. 

 

 _Don’t look._ Yoren presses Arya’s face to his chest as Sansa screams, begs for Joffrey to let their father go.

 

Arya lunges.The smooth moves of her practice strokes give way to livid jabs.There’s no one there to fight.No one there to kill.She’s already hurt the most important person tonight.Now, she just wants to fight herself.Ware down her muscles and her mind until she’s able to drop into a dreamless sleep.

 

She wants to forget.She wants to be No One.It would be less painful than this.

 

She pushes and pushes and pushes, fighting against an invisible enemy that is dead set on ending her.For a moment she imagines the foe at the other end of her sword is herself.

 

For minutes or hours she pushes, lungs heaving, chest aching.Weariness begins to set it.She spins, strikes needle dead into the wall.Her side pulls painfully and she gasps.Her ankle gives and she crashes to the floor. 

 

With her legs splayed out in front of her, she sits in stunned silence.Her head and heart are both pounding.Her loose hair sticks to her neck with sweat.Her side throbs, her thigh pulses.Her throat burns.But finally, her mind is silent.

 

Her shoulders drop and she stays where she is, staring into nothingness.

 

Silence.Nothing. _No One._

 

That’s how Sansa finds her some time later. 

 

There’s a soft knock at the door before it swings open slowly.Sansa calls her name gently.The door knocks into the spilled wineskin.Arya watches from the floor as bright red dribbles from the bag across the carpet.It looks like blood.

 

With a violent roar, her thoughts and memories come slamming back into her mind with a vengeance.So much death.So much pain.Gendry’s sweet, heartbroken face.

 

Arya’s chest rips open with a cry.She can’t stop it as a wail, a sound like nothing she’s ever made before, escapes her throat, and she sobs. 

 

“Arya,” Sansa pleads, sweeping down to the floor beside her sister and pulling her into her arms.Her skirts get caught in the wine spill and drag it in a grotesque trail - blood and death and pain soiling her sister’s pretty dress.Arya cries harder. 

 

Sansa rests her cheek upon Arya’s head and smooths the hair away from her sister’s bruised face.“ _Shhhhh_ ,” she says, rocking her back and forth.“It’s alright.Tell me.Tell me what I can do.”

 

Arya shakes her head.She can feel her face pulling, mouth gaping as she cries.“I can’t-” she gasps, pushing herself back into Sansa’s embrace.She has to get closer.She needs to feel something.“I can’t, I can’t-” 

 

“Okay, okay. _Shhhhh_.I’ve got you,” Sansa says, rocking.“I’ve got you.I’m here.”

 

-

 

In the morning her face feels stiff with leftover tears.Her head still hurts.She wonders how long that will last.She’ll have to ask Sam. 

 

In the back of the room, she sees Gendry breaking his fast at a table between Sandor and Tormund.He doesn’t at look at her.Arya guesses that’s fair.Sansa holds her hand under the high table.

 

Later, Jon tells them a secret. 

 

Everything is changing.


End file.
